These Things We Know
by Liveforthemoments
Summary: A tale of marriage, love, forgiveness, and of all these things we know. Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy. Formerly called 'The Wedding'
1. The End

Summary: Draco used to know everything about Harry. Not so much, anymore.

Warnings: Not really. Ideas of slash.

Disclaimer: Don't own it :)

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You asked me to go, of course. I said no, just like you knew I would. After all, did you really expect me to turn up at your wedding? I wonder, in a way, why you are marrying her; the pretty, pureblood girl your parents chose. Not for long though, because I understand. You will obey their wishes. They control your life, and they will until their death, and you will grow up to become strong and successful, powerful and ruthless, carrying on your family name and business exactly as you are expected to do. I know that.

It's the night before your wedding. I know where you are; a stag night with friends, old Slytherins, in Hogsmeade. I am sitting where I always liked to think; by the shores of the lake at Hogwarts, staring into the dark water as little waves lack against the grey sand and wondering. I don't think, tonight, not quite; I simply feel. I watch the waves grey against the shore and I wonder if you think of me at all.

"Harry." Yes, you do. I don't move, don't stand, and don't react. I wait. "Draco." I respond curtly when you repeat my name, stepping closer to me. I don't try to hide how my shoulders tense. Silence, I find, makes people start talking. I wait.

You used to be immune to the silence. Perhaps we would always have something to talk about, something to say, or else you would simply wait until I wanted to speak, but I rarely remember us having pauses like this. You were always the one I wanted to confide in, to talk to. Odd, that now I will never have a chance to do hat again, I have nothing to say.

"Harry, please." You whisper, touching my shoulder. I take this as a sign of how far we've fallen, but I stand and face you. Somewhere in the back of my mind or the front of my heart, I know I owe you that much.

You look so different. To anyone else, you would seem perfect – the Malfoy heir, pale, immaculate skin and shining hair, stormy grey eyes and pale lips pressed tight. I know better. Your skin is just a shade lighter than usual, there are vague shadows under your eyes, and that tiny vein throbs in your neck like it always does when you're distraught. I wonder if your new wife knows this. You try to smile. "So." You whisper. I stare stonily at you. I refuse to make this easy.

I can see you wracking you brain for something to say. I wonder when you lost the knack of silence. I wonder if it was the same time that you started twisting your fingers when you think again. "I was at the stag night, but I couldn't stop thinking about you. I wanted to be with you." The words 'one last time' echo between us louder than if you had screamed them. "And now you are." I say expressionlessly, my voice deliberately flat. I wonder if this still annoys you. I wonder when I stopped knowing all these things.

Anger flashes in your eyes, along with something soul-deep that sears like desperation. "Stop acting like you don't care!" You snap. "I'm giving up so much for you, you know I want to be with you, we've only got one more night, why are you doing this?" The words tumble from your lips, exclamations and accusations and questions and pain, all whirled together into something I couldn't answer if I tried.

I simply stare stonily at you. In asking order; I'm acting like I don't care because that's how I deal with things that truly upset me. You used to know that. You have given up a lot for me, but I've given a lot more for you. You used to know that too. If you really wanted to be with me, you might actually try to stay. I know we've only got one more night, yet you're acting like _you _don't.

If you still knew me even the tiniest bit, you'd know why I'm doing this, but since you don't seem to, it's to make it easier for you to leave, because it seems like you want to. It's so I don't break down crying in front of you, because I've got more pride than that. It's because I want to see what you'll do, and if you still understand.

I don't say any of this, only stare at you in silence, wondering. Then you raise a hand, fury twisting your faces into a caricature of frustration, and slap me so hard across the face that my cheek stings and my vision blurs. I stare at you for one more moment then turn and walk away, your shouts ringing in my ears and furious, humiliated tears coursing down my cheeks. You don't know me at all.

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	2. The Wedding

Summary: It's Draco's wedding day, and Harry can't quite keep away.

Disclaimer: Don't own them :) Also, this is a smidge short, apologies!

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The next day, I go to your wedding. The weather is perfect – stunning sunlight beams softly through the windows of the packed church and cotton clouds drift across a cornflour-blue sky. It's an imposing place, huge but beautiful, with stained-glass windows that stretch, sparkling, all the way up to the arched roof.

I arrive late on purpose and stand at the back of the church, awkwardly fingering the sleeve of my black suit. You are standing at the front beside her. Anyone else would think you look happy, but I know you better than that. You look exhausted, or maybe I've just lost the ability to read you. I wonder how long that takes.

The wizard priest who will marry you reads from one of the old spell books. I stare absently at all the guests, musing that I never quite understood Wizard religion as I pick out old faces from school, noting how beautiful the language is as I avoid looking too closely because I'm scared of what I'll see. All too soon, though, I fix my eyes on you; I can't draw them away. That always was my problem.

Your bride is beautiful – perfect like you are, like I will never be. She is small and blonde and lithe, not tall and brown-haired and gawky. She smiles at you, dressed in some ridiculous frilly garment that I know perfectly well would be beautiful if I weren't too angry to admit it. You smile back. You are wearing a grey suit that matches your eyes and a green shirt that matches mine; I wonder if you did that on purpose and want to cry.

At that moment, the wizard – a small, imposing man swathed in red robes - intones, "If anyone objects to this union, speak now or forever hold your peace!" I bring my hand up to my mouth, tears that I swore not to cry brimming in my eyes until you look up, straight to where I am. You don't even look surprised, just sad and resigned and sorry. The tears spill down my cheeks as your eyes lock with mine, and because it's you I wipe them away and smile at you, knowing my entire body is shaking, seeing your eyes fill with tears as well. Smiling is more of an effort at this moment than anything else, but I owe you that. I suddenly understand that I can't refuse to make this easy.

All at once, I realise again what the wizard is saying. "Draco Lucionis Malfoy, do you take this women to be your wife, to have, hold, love and cherish, for better and for worse, in riches and poverty, in sickness and in health, as long as you both shall live?" You are staring at me, still, and your lower lip is trembling. You're whispering something, the movement almost imperceptable, but I know that you're saying "I'm sorry."

For just a moment you move towards me and my heart stops beating - I wonder, just one instant of wild hope, if you will choose me above this. Then you lean back again and I come crashing down to Earth. I should have known better than to suppose.

The next pause seems to last an eternity; I close my eyes as fresh tears stream down my cheeks, forcing myself not to sob. "I do." You say at last, and my heart shatters, my eyes snapping open to stare at you for just a second before I turn to leave. I think "You may kiss the bride" is a couple of steps further than I could stand.

As I stumble out of the Church and down the road, I spare no thoughts for my destination but that I want to be as far away from you as I can possibly go. Wiping the tears sharply away, I realise that's nothing's ever hurt me like this does.

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	3. The Anniversary

Summary: Harry tried to forget Draco, because silence was easier. Draco might have other plans.

Notes: This takes place in Harry's point of view and ten years on from the last chapter.

Disclaimer: I own nothing :)

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Ten Years Later

I hate the anniversaries. I hate the memories, I hate the feelings, I hate the way they make me act. I hate that ten years to the day since you married somebody else, I am curled up on the cold stone windowsill of my room and office at Hogwarts, staring at the sun rising over the lake and hardly able to see it.

Ten years ago today, I left the church and went back to the one place I ever belonged – Hogwarts. McGonagall became Headmistress after Dumbledore died, to no-one's surprise, and remained in charge after Voldemort was defeated. I went back to find out if the offer of a job she had made me, the day after I had killed the Dark Lord (with you at my side, although I try not to think about that), was still open. It was, and I've taught Defence Against the Dark Arts here ever since.

I'm happy now – I have been for a while. I adore teaching, and Hogwarts has always been my home. There's still that hollow emptiness when I'm tired or alone, that grasping tide that threatens to overwhelm me, but I'll be fine; I'm one of the lucky ones.

I try not to think about you. Three years after you... left, I married Ginny - I didn't love her and I think maybe she knew it, but she wanted kids and so did I. We had three - James, Albus and Lily - and then she started talking about me moving in with her full time, giving up my job, 'being a proper father'... She's a great woman, and a great friend, but I couldn't bear it. We got divorced pretty quietly, and I still see the kids often. The Weasley's tell me I'm still their son, and I spend as much time with them as I can bear, and Ginny is dating Neville Longbottom. James is six, Lily is three. Albus is five. The other two are very much like Ginny, but Albus has my hair and probably my personality as well. I'm not meant to have favourites, or so Ginny tells me, but he'd be mine if I did.

I don't know where you are, or how you are, although I could find out. I don't know if you have kids or a job, or even if you're still alive. I've forced myself not to check. It's like the silence – somehow easier to lose you completely.

Now, today, it is seven in the morning and I need to go and teach in a couple of hours. I don't think I'll go to breakfast; I don't eat much these days. Besides, I let myself dwell on you, on... us... only once a year, so I ought to make the most of it. Then comes a sharp rap on the door behind me and someone enters without an invitation.

"Harry?" Oh, sweet _Merlin_. It's you.

I freeze; my heart pounding, my throat dry. I won't turn around. If you want to talk to me, talk. Besides, I think maybe if I turned round and saw you I would never look back, never be able to forget you. Then I remember us, the way we were, just for a moment and I turn my head. "Draco." One word, spoken with all the coldness and pain and fury that only true heartbreak can produce.

You look fantastic. Older, of course, but still distinctly yourself – hair a little longer and skin a little paler, dressed in smooth dark robes and smiling slightly. Your eyes take my breath away – they are exactly the same. Then I catch a glimpse of gold on your finger and I feel suddenly panicked. I stand up too fast, facing you, but I won't ask what you're doing here. Silence isn't a skill I've lost.

It seems it's one you have, though, because you start talking almost at once. "I wanted to see you again, I mean, today especially, because I wanted to tell you that I'm so, so sorry and I was wrong, and I miss you and..." You trail off, biting your lip, as I glare at you.

"Sorry." You whisper. What are you really doing here? I won't give you the satisfaction of asking, but you answer anyway. "I've broken up with my wife, as you know, and I'm sure you saw it in the paper, but I'm Hogwarts' new Potions Master. I know you know I'll be living here from now on, but I just wanted to say hello and..." You're babbling because you're nervous. Some things never change. I guess you've worked out from the stunned look on my face that I didn't know you were coming.

Suddenly, though, that doesn't matter, and my vision blurs with anger. "And," I supply softly, furious, "You wanted to see if I would jump back into your arms and we can play happy families?" You look crestfallen, so I suppose that's an affirmative. "Grow up, Professor Malfoy." I snap, standing taller and walking over to my desk calmly, turned slightly away so I don't have to face you, leaning on the wood just lightly as though I don't feel like collapsing. When you don't move, I glance pointedly at the door. Then I see the expression on your face and brace myself.

"How _dare_ you?" You scream, right on cue, "Did I never mean anything to you? Why are you being so cold to me, what did I _do_? Don't you even _tell_ me it's because I got married, because I know all about Ginny bloody Weasley, and besides now when I'm here and I'm yours if you want me you're quite clearly not interested, so don't even try that! You've changed so much, what is _wrong_ with you?"

Again, you ask far too many questions for me to ever answer. I wonder if this is a habit now. "I'm not sure." I mutter, staring at the desk, wondering why it starts swaying as my head swims. I'm not sure which question I'm answering.

The next thing I know, I am standing in the same position but you are behind me, slipping your arms around my waist, and for a moment, I relax. I remember three years of endless lonely nights and missing you so much it ached, and five years of holding Ginny and wishing she was you and two more years of being so desperately alone that I forgot what being loved felt like. I feel sudden tears well in my eyes for the first time since the church as you hold me close and fight the intense, burning sensation in my chest of missing you and needing you, wanting you and loving you, that somehow dissolves in the next instant into fury.

I shove your arms away from me so hard that both of us stumble and whirl to face you. "What?" You say gently, "Don't you love me?"

I lose it.

"How dare_ you_?" I yell, my voice screaming and scratching, "How dare you walk back in here and ask me if I love you when you broke my heart so badly that I've spent the last _decade_ looking for the pieces?" You look crestfallen, but I'm too hurt and too heart-broken and ten years of denying it too far gone to stop now. "Get out." I hiss, my voice low and dangerous again as tears teeter precariously close to the surface, "Get out of my office and never, _ever_ come back."

Without another word, you leave, slamming the door behind you. I lock it and crumple to the floor against it, crying like my heart is breaking. Which, I suppose it shouldn't hurt to admit this long after the fact, it is.

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	4. The First Day

Summary: Can you buy forgiveness?

Disclaimer: Still don't own it :)

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"Ridikulus!"

The boggart disappears and my third years gather around, chattering excitedly. I wrestle the thing back into it's case as the bell goes, and the class mill out, jubilant after their first successful tries at the spell.

"Thanks, Professor Potter!" One of the Hufflepuffs trills and I grin, waving until they leave, letting the door swing shut behind them. I let the smile slip, raising a hand to rub my temples as my head throbs.

Then comes a tentative knock on the door, and you enter without waiting for an answer, looking exactly the same as this morning. It almost looks like your eyes are red and I wonder if I see that because it's true or because I want this to have hurt you as well. "It's not your office," you say, almost shyly, "It's your classroom." I glare at you blankly, my eyes stinging, but you start to talk nonetheless, twisting your fingers nervously. "Harry, I know I hurt you. I can't really make it up to you, but please, just give me a chance to prove myself." I laugh emptily, past humour right now. "What have you got to prove, Malfoy?"

You wince at the name, staring at the floor. Then you glance up at me, smiling shyly and say, "Wait and see. I don't suppose... That you'd let me touch you?" I glare at you, knowing that you can probably tell I've been crying and loath to say anything else as my throat tightens, yet the look I give you seems to be answer enough. You nod as though you expected that, golden hair catching the afternoon sunlight as your head moves, and continue; "Alright. Then, the first thing I'll give you is relief." You stretch out your hand and drop a thin gold band onto my desk, turning to go but pausing at the door. "Until tomorrow." You smile, closing the door quietly behind you.

I stare blankly at the band for a moment before I realise, slipping it around my wrist. Instantly, it sparkles like dew and my head stops pounding for the first time since you appeared this morning. I sigh deeply, feeling a heady rush of gratitude confused with sickening anger. I don't know whether I can trust you, Draco, but I suppose I owe you this chance. I shudder at the used, cheap tang that feeling leaves, and stand to open the door for my next class, trying to dismiss the feeling of your arms around me from my mind.

As I begin to teach, trying so hard to keep my mind off you, I wonder if you really think you can earn my forgiveness. I wonder if you think I can be bought. I wonder if I can.

-o-o-o-

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	5. The Second Day

The Second Day

Disclaimer: I don't own it :)

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I don't drink coffee anymore. I don't smoke either, and I don't get drunk, and I can't remember the last time I had chocolate, but I was never so into those. From about the age of 19 you were addicted to coffee, absolutely hooked on the stuff from the first sip (and God, I remember the first sip, in that café in Paris with the ivy trailing around the door, when you kissed me and then pulled away and asked what on _earth_ I'd been drinking because it tasted like mud and grass and by Merlin, it was fantastic and you'd have a cup as well, thanks).

You used to wake me up every weekday morning for three years with a cup of coffee beside my bed. You weren't a morning person either, but a mug of black in the morning would send you off on such a caffeine high that you wouldn't slow down until lunch. This morning, I wake up to the scent of coffee that I haven't smelt in years, and a mug is on the table beside my bed, steaming hot. Sitting up and reaching for it, almost scalding my hands, I take a sip and want to laugh or cry because it's just the way I like it, with milk and an awful lot of sugar and hot enough to burn.

Belatedly, I notice that it's in that same damn mug, the one I threw at you the first time we argued, and you reached out to catch it and cut your hand so badly that you cried and I did too. After that I used it every morning, even though it was a present to you in the first place, and it's emerald green and says 'World's Best Git' in fancy lettering. I left it behind in Grimmauld Place with everything else because I couldn't go back.

I finish the mug, and it tastes fantastic.

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Oddly enough, I love my classroom. It's a strange place, a little different to most of the rooms in the castle – it has the stone floor, but plenty of windows and wood panelling on the walls. There aren't curtains, not after that unfortunate accident with Lee Jordan's daughter and a burning hex, but it's warm in winter and comfortably cluttered with old chests and new oddities and a cat, a quarter-kneazle kitten of Crookshanks' that I was blackmailed into adopting. He looks more like his father, a Persian; he's white and sleek and adorable, but with a viscous streak when you pull his tail. My first years called him Charlie, after they learned about the last War in history (Binns has updated his syllabus slightly), but in my mind he has another name.

Charlie is creeping along the top of the blackboard, happily stalking some terrified insect, when I arrive back to class after lunch. I slip off my outer robes, preparing for sixth year and their tales of the numerous broken quills and stolen parchments and hungry pets that explain why they'll have those four scrolls on werewolves in tomorrow, but today they couldn't quite manage... There's a resounding crash as Charlie knocks over the stack of textbooks on Unspeakables. He pads off quite happily, chewing on the insect, to go and laze on the windowsill and I sigh, bending over to pick them up.

"Harry." You say softly, and I jump up. Your hair is tied back again, and you're wearing navy robes, and I think you might be blushing. "Sorry," you add quickly, bending to lift the rest of the textbooks and press them into my arms, "I didn't mean to startle you." I nod, disconcertingly startled, and turn to set down the books and collect my thoughts.

When I turn back Charlie is twining around your legs, purring, and I find it irrationally annoying that he usually hates strangers but decides to make friends with you. You bend down again, stroking him just the way he likes, from the top of his head to the base of his tail, and he butts his head into your palm for more. Your hands are larger than I remember, but just as gentle.

"Are you here for a reason, Malfoy?" I ask, more sharply than I really intended to, and you jump and straighten up. This feels strange and new and raw, and part of me regrets making you uncomfortable, but part of me is so angry that you look so good like this, blushing and smiling tentatively.

"Yes." You answer quickly, "I wanted to say I'm sorry, Harry. I've said so before, but... I wanted you to know that." You drop your head, embarrassed, and a strand of hair swings across your eyes.

I want to cry. I want to hit you. I want to scream that you don't bloody deserve to be sorry and that sorry doesn't change anything and I want to see you get angry as well, but I'm surprised at myself because what I really want is not to lose this fragile half-way connection and the fragile half-blush that colours your cheeks. I want to see where this goes, and it terrifies me.

"Alright." I say, nodding, "Alright. Thank you for telling me." You smile, and it lights up the classroom, and God I've missed the way you smile.

"I'll see you later then." You say, and you still look so uncertain but you reach into your robes and press something into my hand and you keep holding on just a fraction longer than you should. Then you smile again, and you leave, and I realise that I'm shaking.

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My sixth year stream into the classroom, chatting wildly, a couple of the girl stopping to stroke Charlie. I glance down at the object clasped in my hand and sit down hard on the desk because it's cherry blossom, beautiful and fragrant and painfully memorable. I remember the cherry tree outside Grimmauld Place, the one we could see through our window, the one I taught you to climb and you used to sit in all the time and the one we sat at the foot of in the summer, talking and touching and...

"Professor?" One of my Gryffindors asks, "What's that?" I start, dropping the pale flower, moving into the lesson. "Nothing. Alright, hands up if you forgot your essay?" I am pleasantly surprised.

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